This morning, I sat at a stop sign, waiting for it to change.

I will never wake up imbued with magical powers other than those I already have, suddenly a witch, suddenly interesting with a priestess pendant. I probably won't wake up with wings, barring some freak genetic mutation resultant from eating too much dark chocolate. I could go back to school and study something completely different than what I am doing right now. Moving in with someone does not equal getting engaged. The power in randomness is random repetition. I only like living on the top floor; I will not live in the basement. I love windows and the opening of them. Hummus with horseradish is served in Heaven. Berating yourself for doing what you are able is silly. It's better to commit to less and do more than to commit to everything and be a flake. Homemade egg noodles should be cut thin and short, otherwise they feel like bread in your belly. Everyone should have a Scan Toaster and eat poetry for breakfast.

So, I searched my name on Flickr, and this is what came up first...

happy hump day.

Flashback Friday: Christmas with 8th graders

Oh goodness. I do love me some Flashback Friday, an event both reminiscent and joyful because I get to wax nostalgic, and, well, it's Friday. Double doses of smiles all around.

What we have here is a Polaroid taken in the corner of the junior high gym during 8th grade. I'm going to go with the idea that it's a Christmas dance, given Monica's awesome red pants and Christmas tree sweatshirt. Also supporting this theory is that I KNOW what I am wearing here and I remember loving this outfit thoroughly: a green crushed velvet dress with an off-white lace bodysuit underneath. Did you catch that? BODYSUIT. Hellsyeah.

Eighth grade was such a pivotal, awkward year. I remember feeling a tad odd about this photo because I was only good friends with about half of the participants, and a couple of them I hardly knew. This was the year when people started doing crazy things; cutting (not school), drinking, dabbling in the drogas. I remember sitting in gym class and listening to a girl talk about losing her virginity, astounded and shocked. Shocked not because I thought it was wrong, but because having sex was pretty much the LAST thing on my mind. I was trying to cope with things like not really needing a bra but kinda wanting one because of the locker room situation. It was like getting shell-shocked out of playing with Nerfuls.

Change is change. The year after we left Harvest Park to enter the realms of high school, they built a new gym; an amazing structural phenomena with two basketball courts and shiny light fixtures. Class of 97 always seemed to be a year off on the new stuff. Alas, I bet they even had professional photographers the year after for school dances instead of 8th graders taking other 8th graders Polaroid pictures for $1 as a fundraiser. Whatever. I probably would have thrown the professional one away. This, I cherish.

if the kitchen had a frying pan, he'd be in the fire.

Human 1 (female): Hey [insert male coworker's name], you want some of my zucchini?

Human 2 (male): Uh, no but thank you.

Human 1: Well okay. Maybe next time, cuz' I brought a big one you know. (laughs)

gasp

I stepped outside my office building early this morning, and it smelled like trout. By the bay, the scent of the day changes with the tide, the time of the year, whether or not the wastewater treatment facility nearby has drained into the bay...but this morning, it smelled like trout. Like during summer up in the mountains north of Truckee, when my grandfather would clean the fish they caught in the early hours on the makeshift sink we had at our campsite. He would lay the fish out, side by side, on newspaper, and deftly clean them. I would watch, elbows on the counter, eager to see if the fish were boys or girls....whether or not they had eggs inside. This morning, outside smelled exactly how that moment smelled; visceral, algal, and pescado.

because sometimes Tuesday needs an uplift

Come As You Were In High School party, Halloween, 2007.

These are the pictures you always wanted someone to take.

Two Weeks ago:A bunch of folks loaded into a rather large van and went to see Motley Crue. Dressed for the occasion, we drank $12 coronas and watches with quirked eyebrows while Tommy Lee ran around with his "titty cam." The show was entertaining (mostly), the music was pretty terrible (entirely), and most strong was the awareness that things that seem awesome and carefree to do when you are 25, look a tad sad when you are late 40s. And wearing your own bands teeshirt.

One Week ago:Bill and I went up to the Sierras, to the cabin and Lake Alpine. We caught a Steely Dan concert at the Ironstone Winery in Murphys and watched middle-agers get reprimanded because their lawn chairs were too high. It was pretty rad.

This Last Weekend:I flew to San Diego to spend time with my Crosby. Fun fun undiluted girl time, we dancy danced, laid on the beach, shopped till we actually almost dropped, and ate the most fantastic breakfast: strawberries and ricotta on cranberry-orange-walnut toast, topped with drizzled honey. Color me happy.

Great but Terrible things...

and then there was this: The boy who made us wait forever!

Old cd in the car stereo on the way to work, and a Tori song comes on, one that I haven't heard in a long long time, but marvel that I remember every inflection, intonation, gutteral slide. If I were to make a video of this song, it would be a montage of images....driving at lunch in high school in a maroon volvo with tan interior, sunny and Crosby's hair trying to sneak out the sunroof...Mel singing purposefully off-key because she suspects she can't hit the notes anyway...picking out the piano portions on the upright in the fancy living room (all white) while I wait for someone, anyone, to pick me up at my house...

Songs are funny that way, all flashback and reminiscent-ish. Made me want to turn around my car, go home, and pick out the song all over again, not waiting.

But I have a report to write.

Soylent green is CROCS

My morning was made when Bill sent me this Newsweek fashion article. The focus? CROCS, and the author's flabbergasted abhorrence of them. I never caught the CROC train. I work in a land of biologist and gardeners where CROCS of many shades abound and I live in fear of actually seeing the fur-lined CROC in practice. Apparently, in their last gasp for air, the CROC manufacturers are branching into high heels.

There are barely words. Most of them are guttural.